


Slides the Silent Meteor On

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Sharing a Bed, magnetic observation as a prelude to romance, or a bedroll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 08:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18090857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Sent by Captain Crozier to aid Lieutenant Little at one of the expedition's magnetic observation huts, Thomas Jopson wrestles with temptation - and loses.





	Slides the Silent Meteor On

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _tentative kisses given in the dark_
> 
> Title taken from "Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal" by Tennyson.

The magnetic observation huts were only large enough to accommodate two people with any comfort. Though comfort here was a relative term. They’d constructed them of spare timber from the holds and with as much stone as they could shift; banked snow up against the walls for insulation, and laid planks of wood and sheets of canvas for a floor. Yet the cold was ever present nonetheless. The stove in the corner, kept burning round the clock, wasn’t even powerful enough to keep the condensation from freezing along its stack, and twice a day it had to be cleared to prevent the smoke from backing up and choking them.

There had been moments since he’d arrived when Jopson thought it might have been more of a kindness for Crozier not to have sent him. Left alone, at least Lieutenant Little would have had room to pace the hut between the stacks of provisions and the scientific equipment. But when Hornby had twisted his ankle and had to return to _Terror_ , the captain had deemed it important to send someone else out to take the mate’s place and assist the lieutenant with his work. He could spare Jopson, he’d said, for the sake of giving the steward an opportunity to learn some new skills, skills that might come in useful at another point in the expedition, should there be other injuries. Jopson had conceded the wisdom of this and tried not to seem too eager for the assignment, though his heart had fallen into a faster rhythm at that moment and hadn’t resumed its normal pace since.

Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about how difficult it would be. Not the cold, which was a given, nor the lack of comforts and tediousness of recording every variation of the needle, both of which he’d anticipated. Not the monotony of the meals - hardtack and salt pork and tinned vegetables - which was to be expected with no full galley at hand. It was the smallness of the shelter that vexed him, the inability to move without coming into contact, the lack of anything else to rest one’s eyes upon but the handsome aspect of his companion’s face.

It was, most of all, the sleeping arrangements.

Jopson wondered if the Admiralty had given much thought to their great reliance on body heat in polar climes. Forcing men to share a bedroll seemed an odd way of encouraging obedience to the Articles. Or maybe he was just unusually weak. Maybe other men could sleep at Edward Little’s side without feeling desire pool like whiskey in their core. But Jopson could not.

He was strong, though, and so he held himself in check. Had for the past two days, and would for the five more yet to go. He’d kept himself steady in the Antarctic when great waves pushed _Terror_ on her beam ends; though he’d felt the same dread as the other men that night they’d collided with _Erebus_ and narrowly missed a berg, he’d kept the fear bottled up and hadn’t collapsed beneath its weight. In the same way, he swallowed his need and let no hint of it escape in his voice or expression. Even in those moments when he thought he saw something eager and hungry in the lieutenant’s eyes, Jopson remained the dutiful subordinate, the efficient steward: focused as ever on the work - and only the work - at hand.

But the bedroll tested him. It was a native sleep sack, made of caribou skins, that Crozier had procured for his men in Greenland. Stitched shut with sinew on three sides, it was large enough to accommodate them both wearing their coats, but snug enough to keep them pressed together, the heat of their bodies protecting them from the worst of the night’s chill. The Inuit, Little had told him, slept naked in such sacks, to keep their clothing free of the sweat that could freeze in the fabrics, and Jopson tried very hard not to think about this as they lay together, the lieutenant’s chest rising and falling against him with each breath.

On that third night, upon awaking sometime in the early hours, Jopson found that in his sleep he’d inched closer to Little. His subconscious mind, sensing a drop in the temperature of his skin, had set his body in motion seeking the nearest source of heat, and now his face lay less than a foot from the lieutenant’s, the backs of his folded arms touching the other man’s chest. Though the cold found its way into the windowless hut through every tiny crack and crevice, none of the Arctic’s midnight sun did, and so they’d left the lamp burning low on the table beside the dip circle. By its faint light, Jopson could just make out the features of Little’s face: the straight, slender slope of his nose, the round jut of his chin just below his shapely lips, the dark slashes of his eyebrows. His eyes were closed, thick black lashes fanning out against his cheeks, several locks of hair falling forward upon his brow. 

He was not, by nature, a dishonest man, one given to tricks and deceptions. But as he moved his face yet closer to Little’s, Jopson reasoned that he could feign sleep should the lieutenant awake. No one could be held responsible for what their body did as their mind slumbered, and the space they had for maneuvering was already constrained. A nervous thrill tingled in waves down his spine, the excitement of contemplating the illicit. But his intentions were innocent enough. All he wanted was to get as close to Little as he could: to look at him, and maybe feel the warmth of his breath as it was pushed out in long, steady exhalations.

It was hard to judge distance in the darkness. Jopson slid himself nearer and, to his horror, brushed the tip of Little’s nose with his own. He froze where he was, closing his eyes quickly, hoping that the lieutenant was sleeping deeply enough not to be roused by so glancing a touch. His breath continued even, and when - after a minute or so - he hadn’t stirred, Jopson carefully opened his eyes again. 

He was near enough that he might have counted each individual eyelash as it lay on Little’s cheek, had there been sufficient light. Might have charted each faint line etched by long days on the quarterdeck. He wished he could see the freckles that dusted the bridge of Little’s nose, the cleft in his chin, but all that was lost in the darkness. Reliant upon his memory for those details, Jopson felt longing surge through him at the realization of how completely those features were imprinted in his mind, how much time he’d spent discretely tracing them with his gaze and wishing he could know them with the intimacy of a lover.

Little’s breath pulsed gently against his cheek, and all of Jopson’s restraint evaporated. In the breadth of a heartbeat, he’d done the unthinkable.

The lieutenant’s lips were surprisingly soft and smooth, considering the harshness of the weather. Jopson didn’t exert any pressure, merely let his mouth rest against Little’s, lax and still. He began to count to ten, telling himself he would pull away once he’d reached that number, but before he’d gotten to five he’d opened his mouth just slightly and drawn Little’s bottom lip tenderly between his own.

It was madness. Briefly Jopson wondered if he were dreaming this aberrant behavior, but the painful throb of his heart was too intense to be happening while his mind slept. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, then edged forward again until his lips made contact with the lieutenant’s, and he pressed just slightly, a feather-light touch.

There had been moments over the course of the journey, thrilling as they were fleeting, when Jopson had thought that Little might reciprocate his feelings. The frequency of his glance, an accidental touch that lingered a second too long… These were the small, ambiguous things Jopson built his hope upon, moments piled like stones to form a cairn for his deepest desires. But no word of encouragement had been spoken by either of them, and Jopson had not in any way made his attraction manifest. Even if he were right about Little, it was too dangerous.

Yet he thought frequently of John Torrington and William Braine and John Hartnell. He thought about the fragility of life in so hostile a region, and how at any time, any of them might succumb to one of the many dangers that hemmed them in. And he could not reconcile with himself the thought that he might pass from the world never knowing what it felt like to kiss the lieutenant. Of one thing he was certain: he had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Edward Little.

Maybe it was this thought that distracted him. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Whatever the case, it took Jopson some time to realize that Little’s mouth had begun to respond to his own. It seemed surreal, impossible, that answering pressure, the soft suction of the lieutenant’s lips as they opened and closed against his. Overwhelmed by both excitement and guilt, he didn’t move as Little pressed nearer, eyes still closed, mouth edging open just enough that Jopson could feel the hot wetness within. Then, grower bolder, he returned Little’s kiss, working his lips between the lieutenant’s, tugging just a tiny bit at their lush line. Time froze in its march and Jopson’s heart hammered hard enough against his sternum to shatter it. Little’s mouth grew more insistent and, feeling the tip of the lieutenant’s tongue against his own, Jopson whimpered involuntarily. His eyes flew open at the sound, just in time to see Little’s eyelids flutter up to meet his gaze.

Did he think he’d started it, Jopson wondered? Fresh from dream, did Little believe he’d been the first to kiss? Not that it mattered, really. Their mouths had met and the world felt new born and full of sweet promise.

Or it did, until Little abruptly pulled away.

As they stared at one another, Jopson braced himself for a harsh word, an accusation. Part of his mind wondered if the defense of sleep would still hold. But Little merely brought his hand out from the bedroll and touched the warm pad of his thumb softly to Jopson’s lips. He moved it with infinitesimal slowness along their line, and Jopson parted them a fraction, not even wide enough to take the taste of Little’s skin.

Then, resting his fingers on Jopson’s cheek, Little kissed him again.

It was still a chaste, tentative kiss, a meeting of the lips with the barest amount of suction, but the contact lasted longer than any before, and when they parted it was with the wet slipping sound of two mouths disengaging. Nose to nose they remained, sharing one breath, giving no recourse to speech. Finally, Little moved his hand to the back of Jopson’s head and eased him closer.

Angling his face into Little’s neck, Jopson closed his eyes, exhaustion beginning to steal over him. In mere minutes he felt the lieutenant’s breathing fall into the measured cadence of sleep. Maybe they would wake in the morning to a new reality; maybe they would leave their kisses behind in the darkness and never speak of what had passed. Either way, Jopson would keep the touch of Little’s lips stored in his flesh, a treasure he’d return to again and again in the long watches of the Arctic night.


End file.
